


The Orchestral Man

by BeLiEVeRiNrAnDOmCApiTaliZatiOn



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, Angst, Fluff, M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:29:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeLiEVeRiNrAnDOmCApiTaliZatiOn/pseuds/BeLiEVeRiNrAnDOmCApiTaliZatiOn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur was a serious man, a dedicated man. An orchestral man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Orchestral Man

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an alternate universe where Eames and Arthur are part of an orchestra.

Arthur was a brass player. No doubt about that. He had the air for it, the lungs. He had a bow for a mouth, thin beige lips curled around the opening to his French horn or cornet or trumpet. His cheeks pumped, in and out. He was meant for the shiny brass instruments, meant for their soul-shattering sound.

Eames was not a brass player. He hated the idea of it, really. He thought it might be like being gagged, something put on your lips, trying to hum your thoughts and words through it. He hated the taste. He was made for strings, with his large, powerful hands, and he counted time almost as well as he counted cards. He could saw away at a cello or bass, but most often he was plucking idly at a guitar, his choice instrument ever since he was large enough to lift it.

But, despite his hatred of the brass family, he loved to watch Arthur play. He loved the way Arthur looked, his eyes half-closed in concentration, his chest heaving with the airflow, his puffing cheeks and bow mouth and rocking shoulders and the way the music flowed out his magnificent metal monstrosity. How perfect Eames found Arthur. Arthur was a serious man, a dedicated man. An orchestral man.

Though it didn’t really matter what kind of man Arthur was.

Well, no, that was a lie. It did matter. It mattered very much, particularly to Eames. Because Eames was in love with Arthur.

It was a silly thing, really. They were so monumentally mismatched. Eames knew that. Reminded himself of that. Told himself such when the feelings were particularly intense. They were very different men, and it would not be the best idea to mix them, not like that. Arthur … He was ruthless, really, all business, in his immaculate suits and moussed hair. Everything he did, there was purpose to it; drive. Eames remembered his primary school acting club, when the director would grunt in frustration and tell them “Purpose! Give your character purpose! Why are they on that stage?” Well, Arthur would’ve been the dream character, forever purpose. Forever moving, working, operating, going, going. But never a destination, really … Always going and somehow nowhere to go.

And Eames … Eames was different. He was happy where he was, only a little discontented at the lack of Arthur in his life, in his bed, in his mouth, in his arms. But there was little need for anything other than the brass player. Eames was laidback, there because he felt like it, no other reason. The idea of purpose was oddly foreign and unnecessary to him. Why have purpose when instead you could have comfortable shirts and a nice guitar and Arthur’s beige bow lips? Why always moving, going, going, if here was just fine, just fine by him?

And this was what he said to himself in the dark nights of his cold bed, when he tried to shove the brass player from his mind. Arthur was purpose and Eames was not. And that was the whole problem.

Had Arthur returned the feelings, Eames was sure that he would be direct, up front. Purposeful. But Eames, lost in his idle fancy and lack of purpose, let himself wallow in sorrow and shame and the thin sheets of his empty bed.

_Love._ It was such a fanciful and purposeless word. One Arthur surely would not use. It was Eames’s word, full of arrogance and presumption. He admonished himself for even thinking the idea, that one British string player, Eames, could be in love with the dark-eyed Arthur. He felt like a giddy teenager, mistaking his heavy lust and painful blue balls for a type of long-term affection. But there was more to it, really.

He had this picture, this idea in his head. It was just an image, nothing more. It was Arthur, white-haired and wrinkled. It was his eyes and his hands. It was a bench in a park. They were old and together and still very much in love.

So, yes, maybe Eames did have vivid fantasies about pushing Arthur against the wall and ravishing him, claiming those bow lips and ruining that immaculate hair, and making the man moan and plead. Maybe he thrashed wildly in the night, sweating and swearing in response to colourful sex dreams about Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur_. But he also wanted more than the pale body and sweet mouth. He wanted to hold Arthur’s hand on a park bench when they were old and wrinkled. That’s what made it more than teenaged lust.

And yet …

And yet he, in his idle and purposeless way, avoided making his sex-related thoughts in any way an actuality. Because, if he did not indulge himself in his immediate urges, maybe he would be able to hold Arthur’s old and wrinkled hand. Just as his friend. But he would be happy with that.

Because, aside from being a magnificent brass player, Arthur was also a very good friend.

***

Eames shifted nervously on Arthur’s couch. He looked – and felt – very out of place, in this large, posh apartment. Pictures of modern art hung on the walls and all the surfaces were clean and shiny. It resembled nothing of Eames’s own shambled little apartment on the other side of town. He was in a suit, and he didn’t like it. The bowtie was tight around his neck, and it was all too stiff and starchy. He longed for his silky, comfortable shirts. Arthur looked perfectly at home in his suit. Oh, bloody hell, he also looked damn attractive in it, though Eames was sure his opinion was biased somewhat.

“Want anything to drink?” Arthur asked him.

“Do you have any tea, dove? My nerves could do with soothing,” Eames responded, his right leg beginning to twitch with his tenseness. He watched the bouncing knee with fascination as Arthur put the kettle on.

It was opening night for La Boheme at the local opera concert hall and both men were in the orchestra. Arthur had done such things before, but Eames was still rather new to the whole ordeal, preferring to play small engagements, such that the catering business his friend Ariadne ran required of him. Their audience, how large would it be? The blood ran to his face, just thinking about those people, those hundreds of people.

“Here.” Arthur set a steaming mug in front of Eames.

“Ta, darling.”

Then Arthur set himself down, rather close to the other man, right hip and thigh aligning with Eames’s left side. Eames attempted to will away the buzzing in his skin where Arthur’s body pressed nonchalantly against his. It didn’t take.

“Nervous?” He could hear the smile in Arthur’s voice, his amused question, and very suddenly Eames really did not want to look at Arthur’s stupid beautiful face because this whole thing was just another reminder of how different they were, Eames with his catering engagements and Arthur with his concert hall orchestras. And Eames with his apprehension, Arthur with his scorn. So very different and Eames really had done the whole opera thing just for Arthur, just to spend time with him, which was a bloody lousy thing to do and now Eames was so nervous and it didn’t all have to do with the upcoming concert, some of it had to do with Arthur’s leg against his and he really just wanted to run away and hide in his empty bed with empty arms and empty mouth and empty life.

“A little.” He sipped his tea. It burned his tongue, hot and red. “Ah!” He was clumsy and shaking and suddenly there was the burning liquid all over his shirtfront and pants and pathetic sounds of pain were coming from his burnt mouth.

“Fuck!” Purpose-driven Arthur wasted no time in picking up the mug and setting it aside, grabbing some towels and swiping at the mess, helping Eames quickly strip out of his drenched jacket and collared shirt. “Shit,” he muttered with his beige bow lips. “You klutz. Are you badly hurt?”

Eames wasn’t distracted, wasn’t focusing on Arthur’s hands running down his undershirt, over his wet skin, patting him dry. He wasn’t staring at Arthur’s long eyelashes or prominent cheekbones.

“No … J-just wet … Tongue burnt.”

Arthur was saying something about a spare suit, but Eames wasn’t paying attention, because the shorter man was holding his hand and taking him towards his bedroom and Eames just thought he might explode.

Arthur’s room was like Arthur; organized, purposeful, clean. It smelled like him, laundry soap and shaving cream.

“Here.” More fancy clothing was being shoved under Eames’s nose. Pants, a button down, a dress coat. Things to replace the tea-spoiled articles. He mumbled a garbled “Ta” and stood with the clothes in his hands, Arthur situated in front of him, wearing an expression halfway between concerned and ticked off.

“Well?”

Eames’s eyebrows raised. “Well?”

“Put on the clothes, idiot.”

“Oh.”

And apparently Arthur had really had enough of his shit, because he just went ahead and started tugging Eames’s wet undershirt over his torso, hands not quite rough, but getting there. There was quite an enjoyable expression on the shorter man’s face when the shirt came off, revealing tattoos and scars plastered onto Eames’s upper body. The look on Arthur’s face was surprise, eyes wide and bow lips parted. Eames wanted to kiss that face. Wanted so very badly.

“I didn’t know you had …” the bass player motioned to the marks, unable to complete his thought. That got Eames chuckling. “Don’t laugh at me!”

Then, oddly enough, Arthur was on his knees and the blush was on Eames’s face and the blood was quickly diverting its way from all vital organs to rush to his groin.

“Where’re these from?” Arthur asked, fingers delicately tracing the scars. Eames shrugged. Lots of places. Reckless youth and tavern fights and drunken brawls. The particular one under the ivory fingers from appendix surgery. He mostly just wanted Arthur to get out of that damned arousing position and hopefully not notice how tight Eames’s pants had become.

But Arthur wasn’t really one to do what Eames wanted, because he stayed there. No, worse, he not only stayed, but he started undoing the taller man’s belt buckle to free him of his sopping trousers and his wrist brushed against the front of Eames’s pants and felt that embarrassing bulge and suddenly he was wide-eyed and, _God_ , Eames wanted to die, wanted to go and die because here he was, spoiling everything with his bloody boner in Arthur’s room!

“I’m sorry,” he said, before Arthur could do anything. “I’m so, so sorry, Arthur, I’ll leave, I’m going to leave, I’ll change in the bathroom, I’m so sorry.”

And Arthur almost let him leave, let him get as far as the doorway, change of clothes in hand and cheeks red and pride gone, but then he stopped him with a quiet “Eames?”

Of course he stopped. He should’ve kept going, had to have kept going, because the other side of the door was where Arthur wasn’t, none of his prying gaze and beautiful lashes and anger and Eames would be able to salvage what little of himself he had and they could’ve pretended none of it had happened, but he stopped because Arthur said his name and he would do whatever Arthur wanted, because he loved him, loved him for his bow mouth and ivory skin and purpose and wrinkled hands and the bench in the park.

“Eames, I–“ A pause. Eames waited. “I like you.”

That should’ve made him feel better, should’ve helped the muscles relax, should’ve calmed his heart. But it didn’t. Because he loved Arthur and Arthur liked him. And somehow, that wasn’t quite right.

“Oh.”

What else could he say?

And then there was silence and they both stayed where they were, not sure what happens next when someone’s in love and the other person likes them and there’s an awkward stiffy and spilt tea and a concert in a half hour.

Eames doesn’t realize he’s crying until he speaks and a salty tear slips into his mouth.

“I love you, Arthur.”

And Arthur’s around him, like a blanket, arms around his torso and head buried into his shoulder and he’s squeezing, squeezing like he’ll never let go and his voice is fierce and ragged and for once not immaculate.

“ _God_ , I love you, Eames.”

Then the stiffy and the tea and the concert don’t seem to matter as much.

***

Arthur was a brass player. He was purpose-driven and perfect and pristine. He smelled of laundry soap and shaving cream and he looked good in a suit. And he was an orchestral man. And he and Eames went on long walks in the park and they sat on benches and held each other’s old, wrinkled hands and loved each other. So it was all alright.


End file.
